The Wolf In The Corner Of The Gym

I sit in the corner of this coffee shop with miss brown eyes, drunk on sentimental thoughts and overcome with gratitude. The corner is where champions are made. The corner of the gym where the dust finds a home. Stories are told and whispers of “fuck this is hard” are shared amongst the athletes resting upon broken chairs. The weights leaned against the wall as if they weighed more than before the session started. The corner of the gym where chalk lays like snow, and the graveyard of barbells that have given their life for athletes to reach goals and dreams, now become a spectator while the new bars spin like a dream. I step over new bars while training, but never will I step over a retired bar. The three wooden platforms in the corner of the gym hold mighty, as only the heavy hitters have the opportunity to lift heavy on such heavy-duty platforms. Heavy hearted and always blinded by life outside, the athletes lift hard as coach watches from the side. Eyes of a thousand words speak volumes as the sound of weights hit the platforms, one after another. Music on low, for chatting about the session is necessary for proper feedback and coaching. Shit talking amongst the athletes is necessary for hard pushing. Positive encouragement is well-respected but only for some, as a lion in the grass sometiems likes to be left with only thoughts before the kill is on. Yes, the corner of the gym takes the least amount of space, while consuming the most amount of weight.


The corner of the gym needs to come back, for to many athletes train in the middle of the gym with no wall against their back. I don’t trust an athlete resting upright and tall, for the athlete that is hunched over and breathless is the one giving it their all. You don’t need to put on a show for your teammates and coach, for they know the real you, as the training strips you naked, as your walls fall and crumble around you. Don’t leave anything to chance, as your hard work will determine your stance on success in life and sport. If you truly purchase a ticket on the midnight train and set out for your dreams, only dreams can be made as the train steams. Your on your way! The night turns into light as your stop is in sight. You will soon be adding another barbell to the graveyard of non spinning barbells that lay rusted and never forgot. Rhythmic training begins to happen without instruction or thought, lifters begin to approach the barbell while the others rest in thought. One after another the session takes shape. Coaches pace as if trying to figure out space. Hands behind the back and heads down while only the eyes look up to see the lifter fall. The coach shakes his head as if nothing is ever good enough nor will it ever be. You get upset in the corner of the gym because the feedback is not good. “Well, if the lift was good then the feedback would be more weight, but because the lift was no good the feedback is a shake, for more awaits unless you lift that bar and create a fucken earthquake” – Your coach.


The corner of the gym is a teacher of sorts. Teaching you to not only become a champion Weightlifter, but how to. How to create successes when times are hard, relying on your gut and self-reliance. How to lift heavy when the body’s tired, is an example to yourself that your excuses mean nothing, and your actions mean everything. Act upon what you want, don’t dwell upon how you feel, for feeling’s leaves you self-doubt, for thoughts leave you with an overwhelming feeling of will.


Chase down the wolf for the kill, as shankle once told me while standing up adding more weight to the bar. I sat in silence watching Shankle add more weight only to miss. One thing I noticed about the miss was that he sits back down with an interesting silence of confidence, even after a miss. I looked up at him while my shoulders were in pain, chalky hands can only temporarily take away the pain. He then got back up adjusting his sweats, speaking agin in his voice if deep and darkness. “I will try again and eventually find that wolf, try again we must”.  This was no smoke break, this is what we talked about in the smoke break after training. Going over what the fuck just happened and how to process such an outer body experience was the pure beauty of the smoke breaks. The next lift the wolf was killed, the throat was cu. The blood on Shankles hand shook mine while in deep breath said “its your turn boy, now move!”. I approached the bar in the corner of the gym with blood on my mind and on my hands, it was my turn to find the wolf in the snowy hills. As my mind escaped during the lift, the bar moved, coaches head titled to the side as I saw the wolfs  almond-shaped eyes. Blood on the snow from the wolf Shankle just killed moments ago. I moved fast and violent with everything I had, cutting the grayed haired wolf’s throat to leave a pool of blood dripping down it’s fur. I sat back down and Shankle said nothing. I said nothing. The corner of the gym whistled from the outside wind creeping through the doors leading to the back of the gym.  Silence after death. An unspoken understanding in the corner of the gym. We got that fucken worlf.


The End



The Bar & The Mic

Special announcement : The bench I sit on outside uplifts me from the snow. My breath steamy as my eyes lay low. A new beginning, a new life to live and let show. What do you want from me? What is my next move? The wind blows as my hands turn red, holding the coffee cup of dark. I ask questions because the answer I have not. I want to reach people from all walks of life, dreams of different and outlooks of many. I want my skeletons to dance with yours, sharing stories with a shoulder to listen and one to cry on. I want you to enter my closet to listen to an orchestra of regret, sadness, success and love. I want my darkness to shed light on yours, as your closet opens with opportunity and more. Let motivation ring in the face of death, for once we are gone, is when life is left.

A new thought sits next to me as my coffee stained lips slurp my coffee stained cup. A thought filled with a new outreach for many I can touch. So badly I want to help others, while demanding their shine, as their confidence grows and their life begins to change, well….so does mine. The new thought leans in and whispers a whisper, cold but warm from the voice being protected from the winter. Walk on stage naked and free, with a mic in hand for people to see. Let your life speak, for once it was taken, so much to give, so much taken. Give to others your naked truth, and they will be touched with a new breath in your lungs, the possibilities are endless when reaching within. For people can fully give in to a new outlook on life, as motivation and insight hit the soul just right. The voice then vanished as I turned my head, once sitting next to me, and now gone and out of sight. Just a cold empty bench in the snowy night. That’s right, I must reach more people, this is the goal. This is my life. My plan is to share and talk about the fight. Seminars I will continue, as they reach coast to coast, but now I must, I have to, I have been asked to reach out for more.

Motivational speaking at colleges is the beautiful whisper I so badly adore. An afternoon on a mic and stool, I will give my life to the kids of school. With coffee in my hand, stories will come to life, as my heart beats, my advice will pound deep, as my mistakes will be given twice while my achievements will shoot sharp and profound. My philosophy will hit hard, and yell I just might. I will point to you in the audience…and demand that you show no fear! I will tell my story of going for it, and how my success became so dear. If I can just help, that’s why I am here. If I can give hope, then that’s what I woke to share. If I can change a life from stage to auditorium, the water in my eye is worth every tear. I am happy to announce The Attitude Nation, Inc. will soon be releasing The Bar & a Mic Motivation Tour, by Jon North. I will be public speaking and conducting a lifting expo at colleges around the world. The website tab, details, and full info coming soon on If you and your school is interested in having me out to speak and lift email:



Rusted blood built up around my neck like dead calluses on a hand of labor and let downs, gripped tight with a heavy hook, pulling on dreams that seem too far to ever come true.  Each heave, and roar pulls the heavy rustic over-sized chain closer, elbows drive back, back holds strong, eyes steady ahead, and feet dig through, all while your body begins to doubt the long adventure ahead, and your mind whispers of white flags and other options.  Pain desperately tries to despair you from your goals, as more fish oil tuns in your stomach, leaving you with a taste of old gym bag mixed with knee wraps from yesterday’s training. “Maybe another goal is more feasible” – Rest whispers with a crack in her voice and eyes drooped like a Disney character – low and always forgiving. The bar you hold is high but so low, cold metal pulling you down as hope moves you forward.  Bloody hands wash up for dinner, as Phantom of the Opera sings loudly in your ears, while others hear the quiet night play a song of silverware meeting the plate and cups sitting softly on the table. Cold nights that turn lonely, make you feel like the only one, like wearing the wrong outfit to the first day of school -therefore being shunned.  A weightlifter set a part from the “rest” –  An alien who is desperately misunderstood and hated by those who don’t understand. Freak, bastard, fucken outcast. There is a place for us, it’s called the gym.
Your scars turn purple as the breath of your air surrounds your thoughts, cold nights can make your midnight smoke turn into a circus of emotions while you sit front row, sometimes good, sometimes a performance that’s followed by a head down shower.  Does my sweat really build up underneath my shower? Is there really a “sweat bank”? Why the fuck I am doing this?  River of red around my neck strangles me on nights of thought as I look back a decade later on my career.  Past friends, coaches, teams, meets, medals and memories now dirt, dust, old coffee and cigarette butts.  My writing stopped, medals hang in dust, only to move once again from open doors and a gust from an open window, as they cling and clang in a cry of acceptance, once appreciated and now unheard.  Old forgotten videos lay on bed side with palms of ever loving lust. Hold my hand they whisper, with an old cracking voice of despair.  A decade later and somehow…..I am still here.
Morning has now come, welcomed by a refill and a long stare out a canvas now almost filled.  Normal society marches on as they do, one foot in front of the next, going to their jobs of work, once told to them by people who work, that once went to school who taught them how to work, so they work. The dark of the night slipped away like the last ten years of my life. Full circle….1,000 coffee cups down, stained cigarette hands and palms of rough.  Ten years ago when I entered the Dark Orchestra I was lost, and now I am found.  Found through weightlifting that gave me an identity nothing else could.  Found through a bar that only tried to pull me down. The crazy thing is, is that if you lift the bar high you can achieve greatness.  Lift the bar over and over, faster and higher, stronger each day, and opportunity will meet you at 6 am at Starbucks aka The Green Jungle. What door to walk through?  I say walk through them all, doesn’t mean you have to carry on down that one particular road. A journey only well sought upon is a journey worth taking.  Have I ventured down paths of regret, never. Have a ventured down paths too long, yes. Know when to turn, find the crossroad and back trail if needed. Not all opportunity will lead to the promise land, sometimes a promise is only met with burnt grass and a rotten grapefruit tree.  At time when all doors don’t seem to lead, create your own as windy roads full of bricks and weeds can be the ones that lead to achieving many things, some on the list and some newly discovered. I write to you today, ten years later with more understanding than before, at the same time none at all.  The times have changed but the coffee tastes the same.  The barbell has been lifted with much weight, but there is always more to lift, more weight to move, walk with, and live with.  A decade later and I finally come back to the place that I feel the most at home.  A decade later and my neck still bleeds rivers of blood……cut by tyranny, and sustained by desire.

300 Pounds

Open mouths yelling, silent. A 300 pound bar awaits me motionless, but encouraging. Usually the bar is my enemy. This bar seems to root for me. The crowd moving in slow motion as I stand looking back at them like a kid stumped in a Spelling Bee. Is this for me? Am I here now? Or have I been in Heaven this whole time? How would I know the difference? Ever since I have woken from death, life has been so beautiful. The colors are brighter, the wind is cooler, the rain is heavier and my love for others seems to run deeper. I look at people in a different light these days. Each of us born to grow, from babies to adults, we carry such heavy pain and sorrow. We help people with bags at the airport, but why not past skeletons hanging on for dear life. We try to hide, a mask we wear….but each tear and smile is seen from a certain angle. I feel for each person, not even knowing them at all. My senses seem to be strong as I walk closer to this bar.

My front toe drives high as I walk like a toy nutcracker. My shirt off for those to see my scars. Yes, this is why. I want to show the world that anything is possible, even life after death. Weights after no breath. Faith after doubt. Forgiveness after mistakes. I am out of shape and have gained much weight, some might keep a shirt on to hide from such an embarrassing trait, but I show my skin to you to show that life is more precious than judgments. I remember being on the other side, talking to that gold figure, pleading that I wanted to go home, or that’s how it felt.  I felt that, I feel that, I am now living that. I was sent home to my family, and now I walk toward my weightlifting community. The bar waiting for me like I waited for my bride, Jessica Lee West. Beautiful and surreal. A reunion of some type, as those who have watched from the computer screen for many years, now watch on as I meet the bar with my hands.

Crazy to think that 3 months ago I just opened my eyes, and now I am in my classic set up about to open up these hips. Slightly leaned forward, weight on the balls of the feet, eyes down, upper back rolled over as arms fall free like cables. The setup I know and love. The set up before the start position that I fell in love with many years ago, meeting once again as the crowed cheers, “Let’s go!” I move my weight to the right and left, back and forward just slightly to get a feel for the bar now connected to my body. That’s how I look at weightlifting, you’re not moving the bar, you’re moving your body, and the weight is now a part of you. If I move the right way, the lift will be made right away, on the first take. It’s like settling into a race car, you must feel the wheel as if you were a part of the car, taking yourself outside the bar only leaves misses and unsure attempts. If the athlete can move with the bar, the bar is simply a metaphor, a myth only told at camp fires.  Now the sport has just turned into gymnastics, and you’re up. The bar digs into my shin hard, painting a chalk circle around both shins, as if my legs were clowns and I was putting on makeup to crack up the kids.  Never a drag, only fun from the bar moving back and fast. I call it horses out of gate, when I see track I pull, when I think Shankle, I roar. When I think of my son I hit the floor, when the smell of my wife hits me from across the country I begin to cry. I am not happy I just snatched 300, I am happy to be alive. I am grateful to be able to do what I love. Being reunited with the bar from the Man above. Family first, and then bar slamming second. The crowd giving me hope, my fellow friends giving me sense of accomplishment.

The weight smiled as I walked away, happy that I am back, but knowing we would draw blood together one day. Like I always say…. It’s the unspoken understanding that creates the most powerful of relationships. Thank you to all who have supported me from death till now. I am forever grateful to have you in my life. I don’t know you, but I do. Hey… I’ll see ya around one day, stay true to you. For God is good and Weightlifting is fu%#%* awesome!

The Gym Bag

Inspired By Mark Haz’s Cal Rugby Bag

The other day, I went through my old gym bag looking for some old tape and a baseball for my athletes to use before training.  I was fascinated by all the gadgets I came across while digging deeper and deeper into the land of memories and assortments.  The horrible smell, the chalky straps, a graveyard of past champions that now lay quietly on the dark while the new generation of gym bags walk around prideful and tall.  I am putting together a little museum…. I guess you could call it, of not only my medals, but everything from shoes, shirts, straps, belts, and all the things that have sentimental value to me from over the years.  All things that have helped me along my way.  Of course this museum of some sort is only for my eyes and viewership, for this “stuff” to others is pure trash and rubbish.

I then started to dash quickly around the room like a kid on Christmas, lining and organizing all my treasures. I was reminded of an old blog I once wrote, a blog that has seemed to be forgotten, by myself and others, a blog that was once my favorite, that needs to come back to life. So….. to anyone who has a smelly gym bag….. this one’s for you.

A long stare at his old blue gym bag as it sat lop-sided beside him on the subway bench, waiting for the 7 o’clock train. There were no words being spoken from his long chin and stubble covered face, just a stone cold look and a thought of how this gym bag hasn’t been replaced by now.  How has the bag with so many stains, broken straps, and holes gone this long without being put to rest. A small crinkle in his forehead asked the bag if the old blue warrior was growing, and getting bigger over time.  It looked as if the bag had grown at least a foot since the night before. He would know because the bag and him have been training partners since college back at Cal, and it was only last night that he stocked it with plastic bags full of supplements of all different colors and textures.  He regretted not cleaning his two shaker cups better the night before while preparing for this trip, as he could smell them both seeping from the inside of the bag to his nose.  Still no emotion, as his eyes glazed upon the bag with straps that were hanging on by a single thread from all the abuse they have seen.  How they haven’t broke by now will always be a mystery.  Some say that trying to figure out weightlifting can lead to madness, for the sport never, and will never make sense.  His head titled slightly down, and the crinkles in his forehead smoothed back out.  His eyes hadn’t blinked since he sat down, and the thought of becoming mad haunted him.  How do you know when you have lost your mind?  He asked the bag while looking back up.  This time words came out from his mouth, while the person sitting across from him grabbed her two kids and scurried them away to the waiting bench three vending machines down. The bag did not reply. The bag just stared back at him while slightly molding itself deeper into the bench, as if to say he was done, and could not carry on from here.  The yellow Cal label on the front of the bag facing him was turned brown from the years.  He was saddened by the fact he just now noticed how worn the bag really was.  His body still hadn’t moved, but his eyes started to frantically flicker back and forth as if he couldn’t figure out what to look at.  Memories of slamming the gym bag against the wall out of anger.   Dropping the bag down on the dusty gym floor while walking over it to get from resting bench to platform.  Laughing weightlifters in the car after a long day of training, while his best friend and biggest supporter of so many years laid defeated in the trunk under boxes and old books.  Memories and reminiscing of how well he used to treat his new bright blue bag when he first got into weightlifting, or back then just weight training / body building / wide feet power looking snatches and pose offs with his friends.  A gym rat that had no plans or ideas of what he was doing, or wanted to do.  All he knew back then was he loved the weight room, and the lifestyle the weight room produced.  The blue bag was just as important as the weights.  Just as food and bed are to recovery.  Belts and coffee, chalk and music, all a family that you grow to know and love throughout this lonely sport of weightlifting.

A small smile crept across his face as the noise from a train passing by broke his long stare, waking him up to a darker than usual subway full of old newspapers and a cold gust of air coming from the stair case that led outside.  He rubbed his hands together to get warm, while thinking about all the different ways he was going to treat his bag better from here on out.  He opened his mouth wide while rubbing his cheeks with his hands to try to snap out of his trance and wake before the day passed him by.  A weightlifter must learn how focus on both weightlifting and everyday life, sometimes at the same time.  When these two completely different worlds meet they can cause doubt, confusion, and the worst of all….excuses.  Learning how to be a weightlifter is the hardest part in learning how to be a weightlifter.  The bag made a small noise from something inside moving out of place.  He patted the bag with a broken smile and whispered as if he was talking to a puppy, “You know what I’m saying, right boy?”. The bag looked back with a glow of appreciation and relief.  The bag was just as much a weightlifter as the man, and the man knew he was just as much part of that bag as the bag itself.  The man felt lighter from their talk.  A sigh of understanding and respect.  He was at first blind sided and taken back from how old the bag truly was, but was now proud of himself and the bag for keeping an honest relationship, and continually staying the best of friends.

The man pulled his hands away to straighten out his clothes in anticipation for his train the he could hear down the tunnel moving his way.  The light from the train opened the subway up with a new perspective.  The newspapers were not scattered around the floor nor were they dirty.  The floor was clean and the vending machines where glowing bright.  There were more people than he thought there was hustling and bustling around as if an army was forming to attack the day.  The man opened his wide eyes and quickly turned to his bag, hoping that his bright blue Cal bag was young and strong as he always knew it to be.  The bag laid half dead as its shadow crept down the bench towards the man.  The man’s eyes followed the dark shadow running into his hand that was structurally there supporting his excited lean towards the bag.  The man noticed his hands.  He picked both of them up and turned them side to side in front of his face.  They were torn, bruised and old.  They were stained yellow from the cigarettes he once smoked.  Old chalk lived deep under his nails, and the blood paintings that webbed across his hands from broken blood blisters made sure that he was just as broken and used as the bag sitting beside him.  The man has aged with his bag.  The man then realized sitting on that subway bench, that he had become his own gym bag.

Long live the smelly gym bag

The Bus Stop

His gym bag felt heavy in his lap. The city bus made his head bump against the window from resting upon it.  The rain drops blurred his vision of the cloudy day on the other side of the cold window. His arms criss crossed his gym bag as if he was saying good bye. One shoe lace was untied; the other was double knotted – his life explained perfectly. One foot into Weightlifting, while the other strayed hopelessly in life. Strong and connected with a dream, while life outside of the gym seemed cold and rigid. His heart is strong, but his credit weak. His neighborhood was all brick, while most bricks were missing. Park benches were beautiful paintings, and the sounds of birds were drowned out by the steel mill a mile down alive and well. Heavy coats and low hats filled the sidewalks as the bus pulled over to drop him off after a great day of training with his coach of old, and his work of new. A coach that believed in him, as society did not. The shavings business was hard, but paid for his dream to stay alive.

His head lays heavy with dreams in his studio apartment, as his wallet tries to sleep hungry and depleted.  His thoughts are what keep him afloat as his peeking smile is proof as his eyes close, while his body wraps around his long red pillow resting between his legs gives his sore and broken down body support and comfort. The night is cold, silent and calm as he sleeps sound, waiting for another day, one step closet to becoming a Weightlifting Champion. Yes lonely, but occupied by his ambition.

Reality wakes him from the bus stop outside his second story, half cracked window with a loud, “screech!” followed by the loud hydraulics, “tshhh”. The door on the giant bus opened, unloading people from the night shift, to now loading up people for the day shift. The next bus is his, and he now panics while one leg jumps while the other dives into grey sweats with an overly long draw string.  C&K beanie and a long white tee gets thrown on fast as he tosses his dehydrated wallet into his gym bag, as if he was picking apples and putting them into a basket. His shoes felt heavy as he ran to the kitchen to grab a bagel with peanut butter. He has been listening to a podcast called, Weightlifting Talk, and the host, Jon North, demands massive food intake for hard training and proper recovery. Jon also talked about not being in the middle of two classes. “Pick one and sit at the top of it!” – Jon yells frequently into the mic. He laughs a little while violently taking a bite of the bagel as if he was ripping the meat from a dead lion. He stood still chewing his stale bagel while glazing across the room out his window, he then grabbed his legs and thought to himself while keeping his eyes focused on the rain still falling from the dark sky outside, “Maybe these shoes aren’t heavy, maybe my legs are crazy sore from all these squats coach has me doing”. He then slapped his hands together to get the bread crumbs swished away, and he then loudly yelled (even scaring himself slightly) “Let’s do this!”.

He grabbed his bag, slammed the hollow cheap brown front door with a poster on it of Dimas looking over to the side in Sydney. He has to catch a bus. He has training to attend to. He has dreams to conquer. He has people to prove wrong. He has a coach to thank.

A beautiful story of a dream being lived out. The story of you, me… A simple story that speaks volumes. A simple idea that is so hard. A simple idea that will soon turn into gold.

The bus stop & the dream.

My Bracelet

I keep my hospital bracelet on for one simple reason, and that is the sentimental times I shared in the hospital with my friends and family. In strength I have the Lord, so the bracelet does not give me anything but beautiful memories. The bracelet does not give me direction, for the Lord does. The bracelet does not remind me of my past, the skeletons of the dark do. My skeletons don’t cry as much. They don’t scratch at my closet door as long as before. The songs my skeletons play in The Dark Orchestra don’t sound so sad anymore. For my skeletons have been saved. Jesus Christ died on the cross for my sins & rose on the 3rd day.  Jesus Christ healed my skeletons and gave them strength, and eternal life filled with love and forgiveness. Forgiveness from my mistakes, my burdens and my horrible decisions. They are set free. Yes, free will is given to them, but their plan is written. With a heart wide open, ears listening and eyes in view, the free will will lead us, speak to us and guide us to our purpose in this life. Just keep listening, and looking.  Each string that screams a tone of pain and courage from their boney fingers to the bow making love to the strings….is a sin leaving one soul. Play for days straight and let the Lord take your sins as you focus on walking in His shoes. Let the Lord take your sins as you try to never sin again. Be light, for others are so heavy, and we must focus on spreading the word to help others to in return help ourselves.  Spread the good Word, live free, get saved.


My bracelet represents those I hugged, kissed and cried with in the hospital. For such a horrible incident at the time, nothing but love and positivity has come from me dying. My writing to you now is a perfect example. You reading this, I would not be writing this if it wasn’t for God. He told me to. Not in words, but in feeling. I don’t remember what the Gold Figure and I talked about on the other side, but maybe this was one of the things? I might have been spared to spread His word directly to you, who knows? I am still breathing to speak of my story and His glory. Best thing I have ever done living on this earth is dying on this earth. The love my heart has been filled with is unexplainable. My forgiveness to others is unexplained. My apologies to certain people is unlike me. Writing about God is not like me, but this is not the old me, this is a new me. A me where God now lives inside me. I feel it as I type. I shed tears as I write. My skin turns bumpy as my hair stands tall, I have a feeling in my soul that speaks to me and helps me stand tall. The old Jon North never woke. I truly believe this. I feel that I am from somewhere else, walking as a past person, in order to reach, well….you.

My bracelet reminds me that friends flew across the country to see me. I tear up right now, no lie. I just can’t believe it. My wife’s lips never felt so soft. My mom’s kiss never felt so warm. My dad’s hands never felt so comforting and big! My step-dad’s eyes never looked at me with so much love. Lincoln’s checks were extra soft and smooth, as his dinosaur roars filled my heart with home. The nurses and the doctors treated me so kindly and caring. The love from the hospital can not be explained. I still can’t get over how beautiful my time in the hospital was, beauty after death, death before life, while a new life surrounds me everyday, as my heart empties negativity and only allows the feelings from the hospital to enter from here on out.


My time in the hospital will live within me forever. I will live everyday as I am in the hospital. I will feel and see my hospital bracelet as a reminder of how I want everyday to be. How complete strangers can love others. How important family and friends are. How unimportant other things in life we cherish should be swept to the side. Don’t stop loving once the love is gone from the room or situation. Take the love from a certain situation and carry it with you to all situations! It’s up to you to seek out God’s word, strength, and love. He has been speaking to you for a while, your entire life now. Are you listening? Are you seeing? Look! Feel! Now accept Him and begin a new life. A bracelet is just a memory, for the Lord is eternity.

God is good.